Rose didn't bother to take the front door with everyone else—this was her saloon, after all, and she knew it like the back of her hand. She raced past the patrons at the bar, not bothering to apologize for any bumped shoulders, and darted into the back room. She hastily threw the lock behind her—only she would be able to get in now, with the key she kept in a very private location—and kept going, holding a window open and vaulting the sill with the skill of a hurdler. She let the glass slam shut behind her and kept running. The window opened into the track that led between the wooden buildings. As she ran, Rose hiked up her skirts again, and her hand immediately went to the set of three small, black leather sheaths that were strapped to her upper thigh. 

She burst out onto the street in front of Rat on his charging horse, about fifty meters away and slightly to the left of her. Rampinella stood her ground. She breathed in deeply, one knife in her hand, and set her feet, shoulder-width apart. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, steadying her racing heart in a matter of moments. Closing one eye, she sighted down the road at the horse galloping towards her, and the angry criminal bouncing on its back. Breathe in. She drew back her arm, flipping the knife in one smooth movement and grasping it by its tip. Rat was barely ten meters away.

Breathe out. Her arm lashed forward with lightning speed. The knife flashed away out of her hand, spinning end over end in a perfect arc as she threw herself out of the way, the blade on a trajectory to slice right through the girth of Rat's saddle.

She hadn't drawn crowds from all across the West for nothing.